


I've Been Told I'm Nothing, But With You Maybe I Could Be Something

by StoriesofmyLife



Series: After Saturday [1]
Category: The Breakfast Club (1985)
Genre: After Monday, F/M, I'm not sure what this is, John Bender and feelings, but i think its good, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 10:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14330961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoriesofmyLife/pseuds/StoriesofmyLife
Summary: John Bender has never had it easy in life and he's coming to learn that a certain Princess doesn't always have it easy, either. But maybe, together, they can make something out of what life's handed them after that fateful Saturday detention. Set a month or so after the ending of the Breakfast Club and gives some sort of answer to what happened that Monday and onwards.





	I've Been Told I'm Nothing, But With You Maybe I Could Be Something

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! It's been a while since I've written anything and I'm trying to work through some writers block and I've been watching a lot of the Breakfast Club, which is one of my all time favorite movies. This baby came to me after about the second time I watched it in a week and it took me a while to finish it and I'm really not sure if I like it necessarily, but I figured I'd post it and see what happens. I might add more to this down the line, who knows, but for now, I hope you enjoy this and feedback is always welcome!

The air was cold, damp with the rain that had blown through earlier in the day and John shivered, pulling his too big wool coat closer to him, trying in vain to block out the chill that was slowly seeping into his bones. His ribs gave a dull throb in protest at the action and he winced, suppressing a groan. He didn’t think they were broken, he’d know from previous experience, but they were bruised enough to make him wish that every breath he took would be his last.

The cold air felt good on his already swelling cheek and he knew that by the time he made it to his destination, his eye would no doubt be black and blue.

His old man had already been in a mood when John got home from detention and he had tried to steer clear for once, keep his head down and make his way into the closet that was his room and not antagonize the already brewing anger that was only going to intensify for every swig from the bottle of Jack his dad took. But when his dad asked where he’d been and John just shrugged, biting back the sarcastic comment that was begging to leave his lips, that was the match that was needed to light the flame of his father’s anger.

John’s mom tried to soothe away the brewing storm, but all it took was the back of his father’s hand to meet her cheek to get her to shut up. And while she laid on the floor, holding her cheek where the new bruise would mingle with the old one that was just starting to heal, John’s father turned his anger on to him.

He didn’t even try to fight back.

He learned from a very young age that fighting back only added fuel to his father’s rage, which made the beatings last longer and only made the collection of scars grow. Sometimes, his dad would get a few hits in and he’d lose interest. Sometimes, his anger only seemed to grow with each blow, like tonight. And John just took it. And he _hated_ it.

First Vernon, now his old man and John was _tired_.

And after his dad had gotten bored and went back to his parents room to sleep it off, John had slowly gotten up and ignoring the way the room spun and every color of the rainbow seemed to be dancing in front of his vision, he checked on his mom, who assured him in a meek voice that she was okay. And before she could start her apologies, her excuses that had worn out long before John was really old enough to string sentences together, he walked out the front door and didn’t bother to look back.

He wasn’t even sure where he was going at first, as long as it wasn't _there_ , in a place he was supposed to call _home_ , he didn’t even care. He could’ve gone to Steve’s and shared a joint, but the swelling in his lip would make that a chore. He could’ve swung by the pool hall and begged the scruffy owner, Henry, to let him crash on his couch in the office, but he didn’t want to have to explain his current predicament.

Instead, the worn down houses with bars on the windows turned into brick mansions and manicured lawns and iron gates designed to keep riff raff like him out.

He wasn’t even sure if she would be home, it was just after eleven on a Saturday, he was sure that there was no shortage of one of the richies parents being in Paris or Bora Bora on vacation, leaving their mansion victim to the inevitable social event of the season in the form of a high school party. Which would mean that all of _her_ crowd would be there, playing beer pong and talking about whatever it was rich people talked about.

Or maybe she was at Allison’s, listening to the latest Bowie album, eating Captain Crunch and Pixie Stix sandwiches while Claire painted Allison’s nails and they talked about Andy’s last wrestling match and just how good he looked in his _required uniform_.

He had his doubts, leaving detention a few weeks ago, that come the following Monday, Princess wouldn’t do as she promised and go right back to ignoring everyone that didn’t live above Lake Shore Drive.

And a small part of John was fine with that. He had nothing to offer a girl like Claire Standish, who was used to driving BMW’s and partying in houses with six bedrooms and getting diamond earrings for Christmas and eating Sushi for lunch out of a Tiffany’s bag and vacationing in Paris and the Hampton's over the summer. She never had to worry about dodging punches and getting high during lunch to ignore the pangs of hunger in her stomach because she couldn't afford even a lousy school lunch because her parents would rather drink or shoot up their paychecks rather than handing their kid money for lunch. John couldn't pick her up for school in the car he didn’t have or take her out on dates that he couldn't afford, let alone buy her the diamonds and flowers she was used to getting from her suitors.

But _god_ , did a bigger part of him want to believe she could be different.

She sought him out that day in detention, when he went back to the closet about an hour before Vernon would dismiss them for the day. He remembered her lips on his skin, the taste of her on his lips, the soft fabric of her sweater, the smell of her skin and for a moment, he could picture it. Them, together, walking down the halls, meeting the rest of the crew for lunch in the cafeteria and hanging out together in her too big room, that was sure to be several different shades of pink, on the weekends and he never wanted something more in his life.

Claire could be shallow and self-absorbed, but he saw the tears in her eyes when Brian admitted why he was there that day, the pride that glimmered in her eyes when she saw Andy become a stuttering mess around Allison after she had given her a bit of self-confidence with her little makeover. The gentle kisses she placed on the history of his father’s violence and the yearning to take his pain away. The desperation in her voice to be different, to not care about what her so called friends thought about what she wore and who she hung out with and who she was seen with in the halls at school. The hollow way she spoke about her parents and her desire to go live with her older brother to escape it.

John would be the first to admit that he had little sympathy for her at the beginning of Saturday and he still didn’t really have much for her, if he was being honest with himself. But he could see that her life wasn't as perfect as he thought it was. While she would never know what it was like to walk a mile in his shoes or to see how the other half lived, she had her problems and she was figuring out how to deal with them like the rest of them were.

So no one in their little group was as surprised as John was when she walked past him in the hall and gave him a secret smile that made her already luscious lips look even more kissable and murmured a shy, “Hey, John.”

While it wasn't the desperate kisses she had given him in the closet or the shy and chaste one she placed on his lips before she got in her father’s car on Saturday, he’d still take it. Especially when she tilted her head a certain way and he could see the diamond stud glimmer in her ear.

So he responded in kind, “Princess,” he acknowledged with a sly smirk, flipping his hair back from his face. Her eyes caught the glint of the matching diamond stud in his earlobe and her smile turned blinding.

It wasn't earth shattering or ground breaking, their little moment in the hall, John wasn't even sure if anyone caught it. But it mattered to him more than he liked to admit. She hadn't just walked past him and pretended that Saturday didn’t happen, that she hadn't sought him out in a closet and proceeded to kiss him senseless and handle him with a gentleness that he’d never experienced in a make out partner before.

He saw her throughout the week, walking with Allison in the halls, talking to Brian in between classes and sitting with them at lunch, Andy in tow with his arm around Allison. She still hung out with some of her other friends some days, but he could see the gradual change and he knew this wasn't easy for her, but he knew she was trying and that’s all that John wanted, that the rest of them wanted.

John stopped at the familiar gate, staring up at the brick mansion that was just as impressive on the outside as it was on the inside. He’d been here before, a few weeks ago when she invited them over for a movie night. He’d taken one look at the place and was terrified to touch anything, afraid he’d either break it or tarnish it.

Claire could sense his unease and had quickly ushered him into the basement that was just as impressive as the foyer had been, but looked more lived in and homey, putting him at ease, somewhat, especially when he noticed that Allison looked just as uncomfortable as he felt.

He didn’t know what possessed him to come here, but he couldn't deny that now that he was here, all he wanted was to see her, to sink into the soft carpet of the basement floor and hold her to him and smell her perfume and hear her voice and forget his night ever happened.

He saw her car in the drive way, a sweet silver Porsche that John could only dream of affording one day and slowly, but surely scaled the gate and landed with a wince on the other side, making his way to the side of the house he knew her room was on.

He grabbed a few pieces of gravel from underneath his worn boots and tossed them at her window, hissing at the throb his ribs gave at the movement.

He saw the curtains flutter, a flash of red hair and then,

“John?”

Her hair was mussed and her voice sounded like she had been asleep and John suddenly felt guilty for coming here and interrupting her night. But, when in Rome.

“Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep, Princess, but I was in the neighborhood and I thought I’d grace you with my presence.”

He could see her squint and he could clock the exact moment she noticed the state he was in, because suddenly the sleepiness was gone and she was all business.

“What the hell happened to you?” She demanded, leaning out of the window to get a better look at him.

He sighed, his whole body aching and protesting and suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to lay down in the grass and sleep.

“As much as I’d love to let your neighbors in on all my dirty secrets, it’s kind of cold out here and I’d rather not have to stand out here all night,” he said in lieu of answering her, “so do you mind letting me in, sweets?”

Her eyes widened, “Of course, come around to the backdoor and I’ll let you in.”

He followed her directions, limping his way to the back door where she met him in a silk robe and concern shining in her eyes, “Oh my god, John what happened to you?!”

She reached up to touch his face and he flinched out of instinct, recoiling from the sudden movement and Claire moved her hand back as if she had been burned. He saw the flash of hurt in her eyes at the movement and he immediately felt stupid. He knew Claire wouldn't ever hurt him the way his father did.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” She whispered, grabbing his hand and guiding him through the kitchen and up the grand staircase, down the hallway and for a moment, he gave a thought to the white carpet underneath his grungy boots, afraid he had stained the carpet with the dirt that was bound to be on the bottom of them. But Claire didn’t seem to notice or care, opening her bedroom door and leading him into her adjoining bathroom.

“Sit.” She demanded softly, gesturing with her chin to the edge of the ornate porcelain tub. He complied, happy to be off his feet, but his ribs throbbed painfully when he saw down and he stifled the groan that wanted to leave his lips at the sharp sting.

He watched as she fluttered around her bathroom, grabbing band aids and alcohol swabs from underneath the sink, setting them on the counter before she turned back to him.

She eyed his hand on his ribs and the swollen cheek, the black eye and split lip and John suddenly wanted to disappear.

“It’s not as bad as it looks, Princess.” He said, but she ignored him, walking towards him slowly, as if not to spook him and he suddenly wanted to die of embarrassment.

“Take off your shirt, John.” She said, already sliding his jacket off.

He smirked, “I’ve only been here five minutes and you’re already trying to get my clothes off, I like the way you think Princess.”

She rolled her eyes, “In your dreams, Bender.”

“If you only knew, sweets.”

She just raised her eyebrows expectantly, crossing her arms across her chest and it said something for how much pain he was in that he didn’t even notice how it made her breasts pull tighter against her t-shirt.

He was stalling and he knew it, but there was a small part of him that was afraid she would recoil at what she saw, realize that maybe she had bitten off more than she could chew, inviting a guy like him into her life, baggage and all.

He studied her for a minute, before he dropped his eyes to the marble floor, slowly shrugging out of his jacket and worn flannel, biting back a gasp of pain when his ribs flared with every movement he made.

Gentle hands grabbed the hem of his black long sleeve and worked it up and over his head, pulling it down his arms and he heard Claire’s sharp intake of breath when his battered ribs were on display.

“Oh, John,” she whispered and he chanced a glance up at her and he wished he hadn’t.

He could see the shock, the anger, the concern, but what stuck out to him the most was the abject horror in her eyes as she stared at his chest. He could feel the heat in his cheeks, shame and embarrassment washing over him in waves and he wished more than anything that the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

“It’s not the worst that’s ever happened to me, Princess,” He muttered, “this isn't my old man’s best work, believe me.”

“He did this to you?” She said and the disbelief in her voice sparked the growing anger that had been building inside him his entire walk over here.

“Still think my home life is just a part of my tough guy image?” he asked her with a smile that was anything but nice.

Her eyes hardened, her chin setting in that stubborn way of hers that he was growing very fond of. Claire Standish, he was coming to learn, had a fiery temper and he wouldn't deny that it made him a little hot under the collar whenever it was directed at him. She was always so compliant, going with the flow and with what her group of friends and family expected out of her. But ever since that day in detention, he could see her slowly start to step out of the box she’d been shoved in since birth. She was stubborn and passionate about things that she deemed worthy of her time. She was loyal and honest and she was gaining an independence about her that, there was no denying, gave John a little pride whenever he saw her defy the social standards set by the snotty upper class society of their high school.

He was maybe a little bit gone for this girl.

“You may like to think that you’ve got people fooled that you’re this cool guy who doesn't give a shit about the world or what people do to him. That you’re untouchable and unaffected by anything that happens to you, but you and I both know that’s bullshit,” she said sharply, her eyes flashing, “I know that those girls you have in your wallet, those girls you _consider_ , are bullshit. I know that half the shit that you said to me that Saturday was bullshit. Hell, most of the shit that comes out of your mouth is bullshit, but there’s one thing that’s not bullshit and it’s _this_ ,” she said, gesturing to his bruised and beaten torso, “you’d never lie to me or to anyone else about something like this. Image or not, because at the end of the day, John Bender, despite what Vernon says or what your parents say, you’re not a bad guy.”

John was torn between annoyance and being turned on by her little spiel and that seemed to be his default setting around this chick. He didn’t want to admit it, but she was right. Most of the things he said or did, was a line or a way to perpetuate an image that would scare most people away, to keep them at arms length so they didn’t ask questions he didn’t always have answers to.

He didn’t know what possessed him to show the worst of his scars that day in detention. To prove a point, maybe. To show someone that not everything he did or said was, as Claire just put it, complete and total bullshit. He didn’t want their pity, but there was a small part of him that wanted to see how people would react if they knew what he dealt with daily.

He wasn't too angry to notice the horrified look of regret in Sporto’s eyes and the flush of embarrassment when John had lifted up his sleeve. Or the flash of concern and disbelief in Claire’s when she caught sight of the burn on his skin.

“You think you got me all figured out, Princess?” He asked, sarcasm thick but his voice wasn't a sharp as before and Claire noticed.

“I’d like to, if you let me.” She said and John wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he didn’t.

Claire seemed to catch on to the fact that she wasn’t going to get an answer out of John, so she turned her attention back to the task at hand.

“Do you think they’re broken?” She asked, running a gentle finger down his side and if John was a lesser man, he would’ve milked this situation for all it was worth if it meant she keep touching him.

“I don’t think so, I’ve experienced that before and this is nothing compared to that.” He said and Claire winced at his matter of fact tone.

She continued to run her fingers down his side anyways, pressing into his side carefully to check for anything out of place or any particular sore spots that caused him more discomfort than any others. She must’ve decided that John wasn't lying or down playing anything, but he watched as she grabbed an ace bandage from the pile of goodies she pulled from underneath the sink and she muttered something about going to the kitchen for ice packs and she disappeared out of the bathroom.

It suddenly occurred to John that her parents could walk past the open door to her room and see him and wonder why a shirtless, battered and bruised guy was just hanging out in their daughter’s bathroom. Come to think of it, Claire didn’t seem that concerned about anyone seeing him or hearing them, so he wondered, if they were gone and if they were, why they were okay with leaving their teenage daughter home alone. Not that she lived in a sketchy neighborhood, far from it, but he supposed that’s what the gate was for, even though he had no issues scaling it with severely bruised ribs and a possible concussion.

She came back with ice packs, towels, a bottle of aspirin and what looked to be something stronger in a prescription bottle. She set the pills on the counter before she came back over, kneeling on the floor between his legs and it was a testament to how much pain he was in to not make a comment about her getting on her knees for him.

She wrapped the ice packs in the towels before she placed them on his ribs and he couldn't help the hiss that left his lips at the sudden pressure.

“Sorry,” she murmured apologetically, glancing up at him through her lashes. He groaned and this time, it wasn't from the pain.

“Don’t sweat it, Princess,” He muttered, closing his good eye when the pain started to numb a bit from the ice, “not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but you gonna kneel there all night? Because I hate to break it to you, sweets, but these ice packs ain’t gonna stay there themselves.”

She grabbed the ace bandage from beside her and waved it at him, “That’s what this is for.”

“Shame, I kinda like you on your knees for me.”

Sue him, John never claimed to be a saint.

She swatted his knee with the ace bandage, but he could see the flush on her cheeks and he couldn't help the laugh if he tried. She was so innocent and easy to mess with and if there was one thing that John loved, it was getting a rise out of her. He watched as she furrowed her perfectly shaped eyebrows in concentration as she wrapped the ace bandage gently, but snugly around his chest, pulling the ice packs firmly against his badly bruised ribs. Her hands were warm on his cold skin, tender on his battered body and John wondered, not for the first time, what she saw in him.

He sat patiently as she dabbed the dried blood off of his cheek and lip, cleaning it with alcohol swabs that stung and burned in an unpleasant way and she murmured a soft apology, brushing ointment on his lip that, ironically, tasted like cherries.

When she was done, she met his eyes and he was shocked to see the tears brimming in her brown eyes.

“Don’t waste your tears on me, Cherry.” He said, voice surprisingly gentle, “I’m not dying, just a little bruised. The chick’s dig it.”

He was trying to make her laugh, anything to to wipe the sad look off of her face. John didn’t want to be responsible for her tears, he’d done it before and even though she deserved it, he still felt like shit afterwards.

“How can you joke about this?” She whispered, brushing a her thumb gently underneath his swollen eye. He closed his eyes at the touch, suddenly feeling every ounce of fatigue and every blow his father dished out.

“What am I supposed to do, sweets? Cry about it? Get angry?” He demanded tiredly, “It happened, it’ll happen again and again and again, until I’m eighteen and I can get the fuck out of this hell hole and away from him.”

“You could—“

“Don’t.” John warned, “Don’t say I could tell someone.”

“But you could.” Claire insisted and John chuckled bitterly, opening his good eye and staring at the stubborn set to her jaw.

“Do you think that I haven’t thought about that?” He asked her, his voice sharp, “I had friends, when I was a kid, who dealt with same shit I do and they told someone and they got sent into a group home and some of them got it worse in the group home than they did from their old man.”

He shook his head, inadvertently pushing her away and while he wasn't sure if he really wanted that, her touch felt nice, he could feel the anger coiling underneath his skin, the bitterness and the frustration clawing at him from every direction and suddenly, the bathroom felt too small, Claire was standing too close and he needed to _get out_.

He stood up so suddenly that the room spun before him and he briefly thought to ask Claire to check him for a concussion, but he ignored that thought, brushing past her and stepping out of the bathroom, needing some space to breathe. He forced the air into his lungs by sheer force of will, ignoring the sharp pain in his ribs and he started to pace, suddenly feeling like a wild animal locked in a cage.

“John—“ Claire tried, watching him from the doorway of her bathroom that was bigger than his bedroom and once again, the stark difference between their lives couldn't of been made more obvious.

He glanced around her room, seeing silk and lace and marble and a vanity with fancy makeup labels and hair brushes and a walk in closet that he could probably fit half of his house into and he wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“What do you want from me, Claire?” He demanded suddenly, his voice borderline desperate and he wondered if she thought he was crazy. He certainly felt crazy, “I’m nothin’. I can’t give you nothin’, I have nothin’. _I. Am. Nothin_ ’.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but John was on a roll, “Your daddy gave you diamonds for Christmas, Cherry, I can’t give you diamonds. You live in a fuckin’ castle and I’m lucky if I’ll be able to afford to get a shitty apartment after graduation. You drive a _Porsche_ , I can’t even afford the god damn bus, I walked the ten miles it took to get here. You sleep on silk sheets and your fucking bathroom is bigger than half my house and I’m lucky if I can go a fucking day without my old man beating the shit out of me. I’m nothing, Claire, why can’t you see that?”

He felt exposed, raw and vulnerable and beaten in a different way. He wanted her, god, did he want this girl. But he couldn't bring her anymore into his life than he already had. He would ruin her, taint her and leave her just as broken and bitter as he was.

He watched as she disappeared into her bathroom and for a moment, he thought he’d royally fucked this up, but she came out with a glass of water and the bottle of aspirin she’d brought earlier. She set the glass on her ornate nightstand and she nodded to her bed, “Sit.”

John didn’t have the energy to fight her anymore and complied without complaint, sitting down on her agonizingly soft bed and watched as she unscrewed the cap of the aspirin and dumped out two into the palm of her hand. She grabbed the prescription bottle of what John could assume were painkillers and dumped one into her hand. He noticed the name on the bottle and whistled, making Claire raise her eyebrows.

“Breaking out the good stuff, huh? Do I really look that bad?” he asked jokingly.

She just shook her head, handing him the pills and the glass of water and he downed both in one go. She took the empty glass and walked back into the bathroom, returning a minute later with a full glass, setting it on the night stand.

John watched as she turned back to him, her eyes wary, but the stubborn set to her jaw told him that she wasn't letting him go that easily, “You can stay, if you want.”

“Your parents?” He asked, “won’t they wonder why there’s a shirtless guy sleeping your bed?”

She shook her head, tousling her flaming red hair even more than it was, “My dad’s on a business trip and my mom’s visiting my aunt in New York, they’re gone for the whole week.”

“They just leave you here by yourself?” He asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

She just shrugged, “I wasn’t kidding when I said neither one them really gives a shit about me, John. The only time they take any sort of interest in my life is when they’re trying to get back at each other.”

Her cheeks flushed, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be talking about this—“

She turned away from him, biting her lip and John knew she had something else to say, he could see it in the set of her shoulders, in the way she bit nervously at her bottom lip and when she looked back at him, her eyes were wet with tears.

“I know you look at me and you see everything I have—money, a Porsche and a mansion—and I’m so tired of you letting it define who I am as a person,” she whispered, “I can’t help who my parents are, John, no more than you can. You get so angry at the world for judging you for everything you don’t have but you don’t hesitate to do it to other people.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but she silenced him with a shake of her head, “I was born into this money and my whole life it’s all I’ve known. But when you look at these things, you see everything I have and I see everything I don’t have. I don’t have a mother that braided my hair and played barbies with me when I was a kid. She didn’t take me to ballet or take care of me when I was sick or check for monsters under my bed. My father bought me these diamond earrings because he wasn't even here for Christmas. Neither of my parents were.”

She looked away, her cheeks flushing pink, “I know this doesn't make sense to you. And I’m not asking for pity. But having money comes at a price, John. The price of constantly having to be perfect. The price of not having parents that care. I’m a prop to them, a cute child on the Christmas card, the child to brag about to all the other snots at the country club.”

She brushed his hair away from his face, “I don’t want diamonds. I don’t want a mansion. I don’t want a fancy car or fancy dates. I don’t want any of those things and I certainly never want you to think that I want you to buy them for me. You aren’t _nothing_ , John and it kills me that you think so little of yourself because you were dealt a shitty hand and you have people in your life that are so hell bent on destroying you both physically and mentally.”

Tears fell silently down her cheeks and John didn’t know what was worse, making her cry or her crying because of things happening to him that were out of his control.

“You aren’t perfect, John. You can be mean when you want to be and you’ve been the cause of my tears on more than one occasion,” her honesty made him wince but she just grabbed his calloused hand and continued, “but I find myself lying awake some nights, wondering if you’re okay. I like that you challenge me and you make me work for you. I’ve been handed everything in life and it’s because of you, that I’m brave enough to stand up to my friends and do the things that I want to do, wear the things that I want to wear without someone’s approval. Be friends with people I want to be friends with.”

She brushed a kiss over his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his lips and not caring that it would do his busted lip more harm than good, he chased her lips and caught them between his, groaning at the softness, at the taste that he’s missed all night and she sighed, holding his face between her gentle hands and she pulled away all too soon for his liking.

“I just want you, John. Not to get back at my parents, not to prove a point to my old friends or because I pity you. I want you because you make me brave, because you’ve shown me that there’s more to the world than shopping and parties on Saturday nights, because you make me a better person. Someone worthy of someone like you. Or Brian. Or Allison. Or Andy. Maybe to people like Vernon or your parents, you’re nothing. But to me and to Brian and Andy and to Allison, you’re _everything_.” She whispered fiercely.

He wanted to laugh or to roll his eyes or to crack a misplaced joke, but he couldn’t. Not when she was looking at him with brown eyes full of sincerity and vulnerability and so much trust. He knew her world wasn’t perfect, but he didn’t realize how lonely it could be. She was alone in this big room, in this big house and he knew, that even though she was surrounded by friends, it didn’t make someone feel any less lonely. He knew what it was like to be surrounded by a bunch of people and still feel like you were isolated in a world that was solely your own. It was his fault, he knew. He kept people at a distance, because when you had friends, you had people who cared, who saw things that he didn’t want people to see. And he supposed, she did too.

She wore her wealth like an armor and to people like him, they saw what they wanted to see. And they, like him, didn’t think to look much beyond that. And he understood, now, she wanted it that way. And now, he felt guilty for not looking sooner.

“So does this mean, we’re like, boyfriend and girlfriend?” He asked, quirking his lips up in closest thing that his split lip would allow to pass as a smile.

She bit her lip and slowly shook her head _no_ , “Yes.”

He rolled his good eye and laughed, grabbing her hips and pulling her closer to him, he laid backwards on her too soft bed and she went willingly, giggling brightly the entire way.

They settled into bed easily and John decided laying on his back was the most comfortable, so Claire curled up by his side, being mindful of his injuries and rested her head gently on his chest. His fingers gently threaded through her soft hair and as much as he wanted to enjoy the moment, he could feel the drowsiness from the painkillers kick in, making his eyes feel heavy and close against his will.

He was almost asleep, his face snuggled into a pillow that smelled like Claire and was softer than anything John had ever laid his head on, when he felt gentle lips brush against his chest, a soft, welcome pressure, right over his heart and a whispered, “Goodnight, John.”

And for the first time in his life, John felt loved.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! Be sure to check out some of my other stories and as always, please leave me some love down below and let me know what you thought of it (:


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